


Stranger Still

by itsonlyapapermoon



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles' POV, I love Patroclus my boy, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Third Person, Their first encounter, during the games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 13:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsonlyapapermoon/pseuds/itsonlyapapermoon
Summary: A strange encounter. Achilles would wonder later if the Fates had anything to do with it at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the book at 12:50 this morning and I woke up the first thing I thought of was Patroclus and Achilles as boys. I cried no joke. It was tragic but bittersweet. This is a sort of therapy because I can't handle tragedies.

The strange boy wouldn’t stop staring at Achilles.

Stranger still, the son of Menoitius’ gaze didn’t bother him as much as other strangers’ would. 

Achilles could feel the boy’s deep brown eyes piercing and curious from the podium where he sat dwarfed by his father’s throne and crown. He was clutching the laurel wreath tightly Achilles swore on his demi-godly abilities his fingers were trembling ever so slightly.

The king’s face was bright red, contorted tight with jealousy and shame. Achilles noted how he carefully avoided falling his gaze on the skinny boy beside him. He must have noticed the trembling in his son’s hands but only shook his head in disgust.

Instantly Achilles knew why this strange boy no older than himself did not participate in this race.

A trumpet sounded pulling Achilles from his train of thought. A games master stood by signaling the princes to take their starting positions. 

Achilles turned to the King Peleus. “Father, if I win this race will we climb up the podium?”

If the King of Phthia found the question strange, he did not show it. His face was red from the wine and excitement of the games.

“Of course, my son!” He clasped his back and pushed him towards the boys crowding around the starting line.

He cried out, “You will become the greatest—”

Whatever sort of great his father declared him to be, Achilles did not hear it.

Blood was roaring in his ear. His muscles tensed. The priest beat the ground and the race began. And ended.

Achilles crossed the finish line.

Before he had the chance to look around for that same gaze, the priest roughly grabbed his arm and raised it over his head. The crowd cheered and Achilles, barely out of breath, turns to the podium in excitement. The strange boy sat. He wasn’t looking.

His gaze was shifted to the side as if purposely avoiding the spectacle below him. He clutched the laurel even tighter. Achilles could see his knuckles turn white. The king leans to whisper in the boy’s ear and he only nods numbly.

He does not look at Achilles when he claims his prize.

* * *

Achilles was exploring the castle grounds on his own.

The games had just concluded and the castle was a flurry of activity preparing for the closing banquet.

The lonely prince sat on the wooden fence separating the woods from the training field. He absentmindedly picked at the splinters of the fence and stared up at the passing clouds. 

He heard a sharp unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh followed by a low and harsh voice.

" _A disgrace_.”

The king of kings walked away, his face cold with an expression resembling something of annoyance. He left the small figure on the ground without so much as a backward glance.

Achilles raced to the boy, thankful for something to do. He felt his arm get scratched by the rough wood. But does not feel the cut.

He is by the boy’s side and recognizes him as the boy with the crown— the son of King Menoitius.

_What was his name?_

The prince rose and sat up groggy and disoriented from the fall. Achilles froze, staying his hand back from helping the boy get up.

“Are you alright?” Achilles asked uncertainly. He knows it is a stupid question.

It doesn’t stop him from asking it. The boy looked sharply at the sound of his voice as if he had not heard him coming. 

There was a cut to his temple from where the king’s ring had caught his skin. The trickle of blood streaked his face red.

“It doesn’t hurt.” The boy answered in response to his question. The boy regarded Achilles. His gaze was wary and suspicious but not hateful.

Achilles stared back. Not knowing what to say, he stood up and stuttered out, “I— should go.”

“Wait,” The boy called. He winces as he stands. “You’re bleeding.”

Achilles followed his eyes and was mildly surprised to see blood of his own streaming from the cut on his arm. The wound wasn’t wide but it was deep.

“It doesn't hurt.” He answered lamely.

The strange boy smiled, “I know.”

In a brief minute, Achilles — normally sharp and quick-witted — was too shocked to process what had happened next.

“Here, let me.” The smaller boy said and took his arm. He gently lead Achilles to a well and drew water.

The name came to Achilles in a flash. The only thought that registered in the moment of shock.

 _Patroclus_ —

ripped a piece of cloth he carried in his pocket. He wet a piece and began cleaning Achilles’ wounds. The cloth was cool but his skin burned where Patroclus’ light fingers trailed. Achilles could not remember having been treated so tenderly before.

“It’s okay,” Patroclus must have noticed the tension in Achilles’ muscles. “I often treat my mother’s wounds. And this is better than exposing it to disease.” He explained but none of his words reached Achilles.

Every sense and instinct told Achilles to flee from this boy— from this castle, this kingdom. If anything was holding him still, it was fear and uncertainty itself that locked Achilles’ knees in the place beside this strange boy.

Achilles sat stiffly, his mind racing. Patroclus, tying the second cloth to his arm, had not said another word.

When Achilles was brought back from his thoughts of escape, Patroclus had already said his good-byes. Achilles had not heard him.

Without thinking he said, “Wait.”

The smaller prince turned around to face the boy. His face was shinning from where he washed his own wound. The hem of his shirt was stained brown with drying blood.

The words were ‘Thank you’ expectantly forming on the tip of Achilles’ tongue. All he did was stare at Patroclus and Patroclus stared back waiting patiently.

The words that came out instead were, “Where are you going?”

“To my father so he doesn’t beat my mother when he sees I am missing.”

Achilles could not hear any trace of sarcasm or bitterness in his tone. And for all the gods have given him, he could not find anything interesting to say back.

“My mother is a goddess.” He says without thinking. Patroclus’ eyes widen but he does not move from his position. 

“She must not get beaten by anyone then.” Patroclus answers.

An awkward beat passes. The air silent around the two boys. 

Achilles races to come up with something— anything— to keep this strange boy rooted to the same spot for a little while longer. He opens his mouth to reply but Patroclus is faster.

“I think your father will be looking for you as well.” He says and turns to walk towards the castle.

Achilles makes a sound like an “Oh,” and hears his name from behind. It is one of his father’s servant boys coming up to him. “Prince Achilles, your father sends for you.”

All at once, the fear and tension that gripped his body slacked and Achilles found himself as short of breath as the servant boy. 


End file.
